


The Denoument

by closetcellist, Decoder13, DelusionsbyBonnie, The London-in-the-Air Archival Society (sakuuya)



Series: New Adventures of the London-in-the-Air Archival Society [8]
Category: Battle for London in the Air (Roleplay)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-28 22:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15059258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closetcellist/pseuds/closetcellist, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decoder13/pseuds/Decoder13, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DelusionsbyBonnie/pseuds/DelusionsbyBonnie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakuuya/pseuds/The%20London-in-the-Air%20Archival%20Society
Summary: Stories and visual aids from round 11 of the ex-Polyvore battle group Battle for London-in-the-air. Primarily not my work, uploaded here for archival purposes.





	1. Round Information / @sakuuya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @sakuuya, aka [sakuuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakuuya). It was part of the set-up for this round.

Thanks to everyone for making our first post-Polyvore round so successful. It really means a lot to me that you all are still onboard for this game. Which is basically over now, actually! There’s this round and one more after, but they’re both wrap-up rounds after the climax of Round 10.

Speaking of the aftermath of R10, Lady Sterling and General Scarborough are dead, and ex-mayor Hazard is sitting in a cell awaiting trial. LITA’s government has fallen, and a provisional government has been installed, led by Roger Ridley as the interim mayor while real, free elections—LITA’s first in a long time—are scheduled for next month (in-game, I mean) to install more permanent leadership. All rebels have been officially pardoned, political prisoners are being released, and plans are being drawn up to bring low-towners up to the sky city.

Other than that, the fine details are largely up to you. Particularly, if you want to declare that your character has any kind of position in the new government, go for it. My general intention for this round is that things start getting better for everybody—our characters have all earned it—but I’m not gonna force it. I tried to leave enough wiggle room in the reqs for sad endings if that what people want. This all does, however, definitely mean that there’s no NPC kill lists any more. Congrats, NPCs who’ve survived this long. You’re all safe. :P Oh, also, the third requirement in particular is basically a catch-all “go ahead and write about anything I forgot to include here” type thing. If you don’t feel that I missed anything, you can consider that requirement fulfilled without having to make up any dangling plot threads.

As usual, feel free to shoot me an email with any questions.

Oh, and I finally put all the NALITA stuff you folks provided me up on AO3! Thanks, all!

NALITA Round 11 (“The Denoument,” according to the title of the Google doc I saved this info in) is open until 11:59 PM EDT on Monday, June 18.

DESCRIPTION REQUIREMENTS  
[ ] How does your character feel about the events of the previous round?  
[ ] What’s your character’s life like now that they’re no longer spending it rebelling in secret?  
[ ] What other loose ends, if any, does your character tie up this round?  
[ ] What are your character’s hopes for the future?  
[ ] Email the group a link to your story

VISUAL BONUS  
[ ] Make some kind of visual accompaniment to your story this round. It can be whatever you want.


	2. Rebecca Tyler / @lunaofthemiste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @lunaofthemiste.

They walked in silence, hands intertwined, both in shock at the events that had just taken place.  It had all happened so quickly, and Rebecca knew neither she nor Tristan had processed the information just yet.  The death of Lady Sterling, the manipulation from Jhandir, and Oscar’s departure was almost too much to think about at this point.  As she felt her thoughts trailing down the dark path to memory, she looked up and over at Tristan.

His face was hard to see in the night sky, but she could see his brows knit in worry or frustration - she wasn’t sure which.  His hair was a mess, fallen out of the ponytail he had pulled it back in hours earlier. She figured she didn’t look much better, but at least, this time, the whole place wasn’t on fire.

They arrived at the Curtis home, finding it unchanged from when they had left it weeks ago.  Tristan sighed at the sight, turning on a few lights and heading to the kitchen.

“I take it Avery hasn’t been back yet.” Rebecca said slowly, looking around.

Tristan shrugged. “Probably not, with everything that’s been going on.  I sent word as soon as I could but I haven’t heard back yet.”

Rebecca nodded, noticing a stain and a few slight tears on Tristan’s shirt. “Did...did Oscar…” She trailed off, not able to put what she wanted to say into words.

Tristan didn’t answer immediately, rubbing his arm. “It’s just some scratches.” He answered. “It wasn’t his fault, and I’ll be fine.”

“I know it wasn’t his fault, but you should really patch them up.” Rebecca advised cautiously, and Tristan gave her a look. “You know I can’t help but worry, after _everything_.” She explained, returning Tristan’s look.

“I should be more worried about you.” Tristan observed, pulling some liquor from a cabinet. “You faced down a mad...well, madwoman, and she was ready to kill you.” He stated plainly, placing the bottle on the table and grabbing some glasses.

“You don’t know that.” Rebecca pointed out, though it felt more like assurance to herself than to Tristan.  

“She was mad, she would have pulled the trigger if you had said the wrong thing.” Tristan argued, placing two glasses on the table.

“Or we could have stopped her.  Maybe reasoned with her.” Rebecca sighed, watching Tristan pour some of the liquor into the glasses. “There was no need for her to die.” She added, changing the subject slightly.

Tristan hesitated. “Obviously, Jhandir didn’t see it that way.” He said eventually as he finished pouring the drinks, sliding one over to Rebecca.

Rebecca took the drink, swirling it around in the glass. “This doesn’t feel like a celebration.” She observed, looking back up at Tristan.

Tristan shrugged. “It’s not.  We might have won a battle, but we’ve also lost,” he looked around at the flat, sighing, “we’ve lost too much to be celebrating anything.” Rebecca couldn’t help but agree, but she had no real way of articulating that - the best she could do was keep silent.  

Rebecca met Tristan’s gaze, then quickly looked down at her drink, deciding to take a tiny sip, which she nearly spit it. “It’s awful!” She exclaimed, looking up at Tristan, who had an odd sort of expression on his face.

“Don’t you drink?” He asked, trace of a smile in his eyes after seeing Rebecca’s ridiculous reaction.

“Not really.” She shrugged. The most she’d ever had was some champagne or wine at parties, and that had mostly been before the rebellion, before she needed all her wits about her to spy around. “Nothing this strong, at least.”

“It takes some getting used to.” Tristan explained after he took a sip. “But it’ll help for now.”

“Help what?”

“Forgetting, I suppose.”

“That seems like a poor reason to drink.” She commented cautiously, meeting Tristan’s gaze slowly.  It was unlike him to be so...reckless.

Tristan shrugged. “Tonight, I’m fine with a poor reason.  I can think about everything tomorrow, be their ‘golden boy’ then.”  He sighed, taking another swig.

Despite the awful taste, Rebecca kept on drinking, though she was at a much slower pace than Tristan.  The thought occurred to her to say something, but she figured that it would be better off another day - after all, the words, at this point, would be completely ignored.  So she kept drinking and listened to Tristan talk.

He was upset - that much she could gather.  He’d been upset the moment they stepped on the base over a week ago, but he hadn’t been willing to talk about it.  Every time Rebecca tried to bring up the cautious subject of his mother’s death, Tristan turned the topic back to her recovery and the stitches on her leg.  It didn’t help that even more death and loss had happened since then.

The conversation continued, and Rebecca, when thinking back, could only remember some of it.  She figured it was the alcohol, but they were also exhausted, both physically and emotionally from everything.  Despite the sad subjects they were discussing, Rebecca legitimately enjoyed being there with Tristan, both of them without their masks that they usually had.

The last thing Rebecca remembered was her leaning over to kiss Tristan.

* * *

Does time heal all the wounds? Rebecca wasn’t exactly sure.  It had been about a week since the events at Lady Sterling’s manor, and for some unknown reason, Rebecca could not sleep. Of course, she had slept the first night, with the help of the dreadful liquor she had consumed with Tristan, but now she was rendered sleepless.

The bout of insomnia wasn’t from a lack of trying, of course, she laid down every night next to Tristan, but found that her dreams were simply unbearable. Most of them were of that night in the laboratory, being confronted by Lady Sterling.

In some of them, she hadn’t moved out of the way fast enough of Oscar’s initial attack, and he stabbed her.  The dream was vague in details, but it usually ended with Oscar’s death as well - without her warning, the doctor used the prod on Oscar.  In others, Rebecca said the wrong thing - she couldn’t remember what - and Lady Sterling fired her weapon at her. She usually woke up just as the bullet - or whatever projectile it was - hit her, leaving her gasping for air and her heart beating fast.

The worst ones were the ones that didn’t end with her death.  In those, she would be talking with Lady Sterling and turn her head towards Oscar and Tristan fighting, just in time to see Oscar kill his best friend.  This dream, unfortunately, was the most frequent, mostly because she felt like it was her fault, for some reason. A little voice in the back of her head nagged her, suggesting that she could have told Oscar to walk away, and maybe he wouldn’t have done what he did.

Unfortunately, these all made it very hard to sleep, so Rebecca figured there wouldn’t be any point in attempting to.  She stayed awake and wrote, trying to comprehend what had happened and why it bothered her so damn much. It wasn’t like she had been _attacked_ , after all, she hadn’t really been fighting.

So why did Lady Sterling’s words ring in her ear?

She rationalized that it was a fear that she would eventually become and act like the older woman, which made some sort of sense.  Rebecca still wasn’t sure why she had been singled out initially, and although Tristan did denounce most of her claims as ramblings from a madwoman, some of what she said did make sense to Rebecca.

Or was it the lack of sleep?

So when the news of the rebellion finally winning came to the Curtis household - now just Tristan, herself, and a few small cameos from Avery - Rebecca was unsure of how to react.  Of course, it was a huge relief, that their sacrifices had amounted to something, but it was the specific nature of those sacrifices that bothered Rebecca. Plus, with Oscar missing and several likely deaths, there didn’t feel like much to celebrate.

She heard Tristan sigh as he entered the house, slamming the door a little too loudly.  He had been meeting with a few of the other rebellion heads to discuss government, though he wasn’t exactly pleased about it.  There were too many formalities in politics, he claimed, and that while he was fine helping with rebuilding, he didn’t want to work in some dingey government office.

“Hey Becca,” Tristan greeted her, leaning in and giving her a kiss on the cheek.  The nickname didn’t bother her anymore - as long as Tristan used it. “What are you writing?”

“Thoughts and musings, as usual.” Rebecca answered as she closed her journal. “How were the others?”

Tristan sighed. “It was interesting.” He shrugged. “Roger Ridley is likely to be the new mayor.  They probably want to offer me some sort of job too, not sure of what right now. I would have preferred the meeting if you had gone.”

“I’m a writer, not a politician.  I hardly think I’m capable to put people in government.” Rebecca scoffed. “Besides, if you wanted me to go so badly, you should have asked again.”

“Honestly, I was hoping you would use this opportunity to sleep.” Tristan frowned. “You know I can’t help but worry.” He added, getting another thought. “You might find this interesting - they want a new position, a Minister of Public Health.”

Rebecca frowned. “Why should this interest me?”

“They want Jhandir to fill it.” Tristan explained.

Rebecca scowled. “I do hope you objected to this.”

“I did but…” He sighed. “They’ll likely offer him the position.  Might do him some good, let others keep an eye on him.”

“He forced Oscar to murder Lady Sterling, I don’t want him in charge of health!” Rebecca exclaimed, her frown deeping. “This is why I don’t like politics.”

“Aye.” Tristan agreed, sighing.  After a pause, he spoke again. “I talked to Cordelia, asked her to keep an eye out for Oscar.” He said quietly.

“Do you think he left the city?” Rebecca asked, matching Tristan’s volume.

“Perhaps.  Probably planning to, at least.” Tristan explained. “It’s what I would do.”

“But...the rebellion is over.  He can come home.”

“Would he want to?” Tristan asked, meeting Rebecca’s gaze.

Rebecca frowned, tapping her pen on her notebook. “I’ll write something - a note - and we’ll leave it for him, explaining that there’s no risk anymore, that the machine was destroyed.” She decided. “Hopefully he’ll find it, or we’ll find him.”

Tristan nodded, and he seemed to have an idea. “Rebecca,” he said cautiously, and she took note of the use of her full name, “do you have plans to see your family?” He asked.

Rebecca hesitated. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure.  I know my brother’s been worried.”

“Then maybe you should visit him.”

* * *

“Are you sure about this?” Tristan asked, shifting his weight nervously between his feet.  They were on the front steps of the Tyler manor days later, and despite the rebellion being over, they still felt somewhat hunted.  Before arriving at the manor, the pair had stopped at an overlook that Oscar had frequented, and left the note Rebecca had written days earlier.

“You’re the one that suggested I go see him, now that...everything’s over.” Rebecca shrugged. “He’s my family, and I do feel bad about abandoning him amidst everything.”

Tristan frowned. “Let me rephrase - are you sure that bringing me is a good idea?” He asked. “When I suggested you see him, I didn’t think I would be a part of it.”

Rebecca looked over, smiling at him. “Relax.  I’m sure Nathan will like you, and you can ignore Octavia.” She assured him, grabbing his hand and squeezing it for extra reassurance.

The door opened, revealing a butler that Rebecca didn’t recognize, but who recognized her.  “Miss Tyler-”

“Is my brother here?” Rebecca interrupted, which was somewhat unlike her, as she pushed past the butler into her house.

“He’s in the study.” The butler responded, frowning at Tristan. “Who is this?”

“This is Mr. Curtis, he’s my...guest.” Rebecca settled, not wanting to get into it with a complete stranger.  She didn’t wait for an answer, instead heading to the study with Tristan on her heel.

As soon as she pushed the door open, she spotted her brother, Nathan, sitting at her father - no, _his_ desk.  He was writing furiously, and groaned as soon as he heard the door open. “For the last time, Wadsworth, I told you to-” He had turned to face the door while yelling, and trailed off as soon as he saw who was there.

“Hello.” Rebecca said softly, unsure of really what to say.  She had assumed that she had more of a plan, but here she was, saying hello like she had only been gone for an hour or two.

Nathan stood up, walking over and hugging his sister. “Never do that again, I thought you were dead.” He said quietly as Rebecca hugged him back.

“I didn’t mean for you to worry.” Rebecca explained, knowing it was a weak explanation at best.

Nathan pulled away. “I didn’t know what to think, after you disappeared only weeks after Father’s death.  Now you show up, weeks later, looking perfectly safe with a guest in tow.” He said, looking over at Tristan.

“I wasn’t having a dalliance, if that’s what you’re implying.” Rebecca corrected, gesturing to Tristan. “This is Mr. Tristan Curtis, Nathan.”

“A pleasure to meet you, sir.” Tristan said, holding out his hand.

Nathan shook Tristan’s hand. “And you.” He replied, turning to Rebecca. “I wasn’t implying anything, I’m simply wondering where you’ve been and if you’ve been hurt.”

“I’ve been staying with Mr. Curtis in order to keep my work with the rebellion a secret.” Rebecca explained, watching as Nathan’s face went from shock to worry to anger.

“You’ve been working with the rebellion?” Nathan asked, masking his anger from Tristan, though Rebecca could read her brother plain as day. “They may have won, but they killed people, our own father-”

“It wasn’t the rebels, it was government assassins, the same ones that murdered Mr. Sherry.” Rebecca interjected.

“They said he was killed by a rebellion member, remember?” Nathan sighed. “Why would you think to do this?”

Rebecca didn’t like arguing with her brother, but decided to continue. “Oscar wouldn’t have been killed by a fellow rebellion member, but he was a target and he knew.  I reached out to Tristan after his death because I knew that was the only way to fix the system that killed him in the first place.” She explained, deciding to not mention that Oscar was still alive, but missing and a cyborg. “You knew the system was corrupt, just as I did.”

Tristan, feeling increasingly awkward, turned to Rebecca. “I think it’s best if I leave you two be.” He told her quietly, before exiting the room.  Rebecca watched him go, her frown deepening.

Nathan hesitated, speaking after Tristan’s departure. “So what? Are you just going to try and go back to normal?”

“Not exactly.  It was wrong of me to hide this from you but...if you can believe me, I did it for your protection.” Rebecca shrugged. “I couldn’t let anyone go after you if they knew my involvement.”

Nathan frowned. “I wish you’d have let me know you were safe.  I’ve been worried, so has our mother….” He sighed. “And now we’ve got no government.”

“Well, not exactly.  I hear they’re working on it.” Rebecca shrugged. “You could help.  Follow in our father’s footsteps and be better.” She suggested, getting an idea.  Nathan did have some experience in politics, and he wasn’t from the rebellion, which could boost support for the new government.

“Perhaps.” Nathan shrugged as well, then developed a slight smirk on his face. “We can discuss that later.  For now, I best learn about the lad you brought here with you.”

“Tristan?” Rebecca blushed. “We’re….we’re close.  I know he’s not exactly high class, but he’s smart, and he listens to me, and he’s one of the bravest men I’ve ever known.”

“I see.” Nathan said enigmatically, leading Rebecca over to the sitting area in the study. “Before I learn more, I have to wonder - are you happy now, Becca?  You never were before.”

Rebecca smiled. “I am.”

* * *

It was very strange to be back, Rebecca decided.  Her room was unchanged physically, but it felt too large for her, after weeks in the old base and the Curtis home.  She was glad to see that most of her books were left alone, clear by the layer of dust on the shelves. Her desk lay untouched as well, though there wasn’t anything of real value in it anyways.  If her brother had gone through her belongings, he had done so discreetly.

“Look what the cat dragged in.” Rebecca turned to find Octavia standing in her doorway, looking quite smug.

“I thought proper ladies knew how to knock.” Rebecca said coldly, not wanting to deal with the taunting.

“Proper ladies don’t abandon their families to work for the enemy.” Octavia scoffed, walking into Rebecca’s bedroom. “Which proves that you’re not very well-trained.”

Remembering Lady Sterling’s words, Rebecca smiled slightly. “I’ll take that as a compliment, then.  What business do you have here?” She asked, ever so sweetly.

“Oh, nothing in particular.” Octavia shrugged, obviously smug. “I just had the loveliest conversation with your street rat.  You do seem to have a preference for those, first the bodyguard, then this one. I wonder when he’ll get shot?”

“Mr. Curtis is not a street rat, he’s from a well-off family, and he was only talking to you to be polite.” Rebecca frowned. “If that’s all you have to say, then I request that you leave.”

“In that suit?” Octavia scoffed. “He doesn’t fool anybody.  Just wait until-”

“Until what, you ruin my reputation?” Rebecca interrupted, starting to get angry. “Go ahead, I dare you.  Tristan Curtis is a damn hero that I love and I don’t bloody care about the opinions that your high society friends have of him.” She snapped, only realizing what she said after she said it.

Octavia hesitated, and Rebecca thought she was done.  Unfortunately, she started laughing. “You _love_ him?!  How ridiculous.  You might have had fun with your little dalliance but I am here to put an end to it.”

“You cannot control me, you’re barely two years older than I.” Rebecca scoffed.

“I control everyone in this house, half the people here work for me.” Octavia smirked. “Just wait until your mother dies, then I’ll be the true Baroness and I won’t have to worry about brats like you anymore.”

“You think my brother would let you harm me or my mother?”

“He wouldn’t know about it.” Octavia shrugged. “And who would believe poor little Rebecca, tied up in her rebellious ideals, thinking she can love a poor man.”

Part of Rebecca would have given into Octavia’s demands, be the well-trained young lady that she was and accept the terms from the other woman.  That would have been the easy way out, but Rebecca was sick and tired of being pushed around, of letting the enigmatic words she heard weeks ago bother her, of letting her brother’s wife berate her.

“Octavia, darling.” Rebecca said coldly, eerily calm. “You wouldn’t dare lay a hand on any of us, nor your staff.  If you even try, I will tell the world everything little dirty thing I know about you.”

“No one would believe you.”

“I’ll write under a pseudonym, you’d be surprised how gifted I am with a pen.” Rebecca smirked. “Just think - I destroyed a government, imagine what I can do to a marriage.” She threatened, not even caring how much she was exaggerating.

“Nathan would never forgive you.” Octavia snapped, but her eyes looked frightened, acknowledging the very real possibility that this could actually happen.

Rebecca sighed. “Perhaps he would in time.  It would be worth it to keep him away from a snake like you.” She shrugged, straightening her jacket.  “Now that our business is over, I suggest you leave.”

Octavia rolled her eyes, but listened. “I think you’ll regret this, dear Rebecca.” She threatened.

“Doubtful.”

* * *

Rebecca sat on her window seat of her room, wondering why she ever came back in the first place.  It was night and raining, and Tristan still hadn’t returned from whatever business he had earlier.  Of course, Rebecca knew that his conversation with Octavia would have been a deterrent to return. She resolved to go out and find him in the morning, and continued to write in her journal peacefully.

Suddenly, there was a knock on her window, startling her.  It was Tristan, who was absolutely soaking wet as he clung to the side of the manor.  She opened the window, helping him inside. “You’re absolutely soaked!” She commented, grabbing a blanket from a chair and handing to him.

“I didn’t think it was going to rain.” Tristan shrugged, looking around. “Your room is big.” He observed, following Rebecca as she walked over to the fireplace, sitting next to her on the loveseat in front of it.

“I suppose I am a tad spoiled.” Rebecca shrugged, frowning slightly. “How did you know this was the right window? And why did you come anyways? I mean, it is rather nice to see you, but after you left…” She trailed off.

“Chauncey told me a while back which window to use if I needed to drop off correspondence to you.” Tristan explained. “And it was too weird being home alone that I decided I’d rather visit you.”

“I’m glad you came.” Rebecca smiled softly. “I thought Octavia would have scared you off.  The things she said about you were deplorable, though I quickly set her straight.”

Tristan raised an eyebrow. “Octavia isn’t any different from the old government.  They’ll always have their opinions, the best we can do right now is ignore them and set things straight with the new government.”

Rebecca frowned. “You’re going to take the job?”

“Perhaps.” Tristan shrugged. “I’ve been with the rebellion so long that I’m not too sure what I should do with my life.  Though I absolutely despise Jhandir, at least he’s got a profession.”

“You’ll figure it out, trust me.” Rebecca assured him. “Besides, there’s a chance you could work with my brother, and I’ll always be around.”

“The Baron wants to be in the new government?”

“It might calm some fears if the see a familiar face - even though he’s not my father, he’s a thousand times better.” Rebecca explained. “Plus, he’s almost as smart as I am.”

“Modest, aren’t we?” Tristan smirked, and Rebecca grinned back. “What about you? What will you be doing?”

Rebecca shrugged. “I’m not sure, at all.  I know I don’t want to be in government, I’d rather be writing about the goings-on and exposing those that have done wrong.” She sighed. “But I don’t know if I want to settle down in a career just yet.  I could travel, that’s something I’ve thought about, but with Octavia plotting here, I don’t know if I should leave.”

Tristan was silent for a minute, putting his arm around Rebecca - he was still wet, but she didn’t mind. “It seems like you have quite the predicament.” He spoke after a while. “Perhaps we should take things a bit slowly.”

“What do you mean?”

“I could accept the job, or I could wait.  I know Mrs. Massey well enough, I’m sure there could be something for me later if I passed on it now.” Tristan explained. “As for you, there’s no need to rush into a job.  It’s not like you’ll need to worry about housing; you’ll always have a home here, or with me, if you’ll have it.”

Rebecca nodded. “I could wait until the election, at least.  Ridley’s likely to win anyways, but I could see if my brother or you get a position as well.  Unfortunately, I just have this feeling that the action isn’t over yet, like there’s another battle coming.”

“Hopefully, that feeling will fade.” Tristan decided. “But if there is another battle, you know I’ll be right by your side.”

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see.”

  
  



	3. Dr. Anil Jhandir / @sakuuya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @sakuuya, AKA [sakuuya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sakuuya).

Dr. Jhandir’s new house on Epsilon was a small one, hardly bigger than the two halves of the infirmary combined, but its brickwork wasn’t crumbling and the wiring for its incandescent lights wasn’t strung together with hatpins and hope. The neighborhood was a stark improvement, too, only two streets away from the botanical gardens, and the people here seemed to care about maintaining the verdant atmosphere: Each house was surrounded with an immaculate lawn or garden, and a few even had small greenhouses around the back.

The doctor was in his own greenhouse when he heard the buzzer that indicated someone was at his front door. He sighed, put down the tweezers he’d been using to feed dead flies to his pitchers, grabbed his jacket from its peg by the greenhouse door, and went to answer the buzzer.

The inside of his house was quite different than the infirmary had been, too, in that it was nearly empty. Dr. Jhandir fully intended to furnish it in the manner that he was accustomed; he just hadn’t had the time in the scant days since he’d been able to come out of hiding. He had a dark suspicion that some of his neighbors were the type to have bought all their furniture by mail order, but he was going to curate his own furnishings. And he had to do something about the wallpaper, too—whoever had lived here before him had, frankly, awful taste.

For now, though, he limped as quickly as he could through the sparsely-furnished rooms to the door. When he looked through the peephole, he was surprised to see Daphne Massey standing on his front step. He was on his guard as he slid back the bolt and unlocked the door. Though he was sure there was nothing incriminating in this new house, nor had he done anything recently that she might object to, a visit from her could only bode ill.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Massey,” Dr. Jhandir said as he opened the door. “My apologies for keeping you waiting; I was in the greenhouse when you arrived.”

“Good afternoon, doctor. Don’t trouble yourself about it. I did show up unannounced, after all.” 

“You did,” he agreed, stepping aside to allow her into the foyer. “What brings you here? I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to purchase much furniture, so I’m not exactly set up to entertain. I can make tea, though, if you’d like.”

Mrs. Massey looked around the bare foyer before she replied. “No, thank you. I can’t stay long. I really just popped by to give you this.”

She withdrew an envelope, embossed with the seal of the mayor’s office, from her bag and handed it to him. Dr. Jhandir didn’t have a letter opener at hand, but rather than fetch one and risk having Mrs. Massey trail him to his office, he tore it open by hand and read the letter inside silently for a moment.

“Minister of Public Health?”

“Yes. A new position,” Mrs. Massey said. “It’s high time our government started taking some responsibility for the welfare of its citizens. Roger feels—and I agree, though I’ll say that Tristan Curtis objected most strongly—that you’re an ideal candidate.”

Dr. Jhandir’s eyes narrowed. “Do you, then?” A real position in the government (a public one, where he’d actually get credit for the work he did) was incredibly tempting. A fantasy, practically. So there had to be some catch, some angle she was playing.

Mrs. Massey smiled. “You really do seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that I wish you ill. I admit that there’s a little propaganda involved—London is hardly just a city of Englishmen these days, and the makeup of its government should reflect that—but Roger and I wouldn’t be offering you the position if you weren’t qualified. Despite a few...missteps, you proved during the rebellion that you’re quite capable of medical administration. But if you need a show of good faith, here.”

She reached into her purse again and pulled out a tiny parcel, smaller and only a little thicker than the envelope had been. It was wrapped in brown paper tied with string. Dr. Jhandir took it, still suspicious; he could feel her eyes on him as he unwrapped it.

Inside the parcel were the photographs of Dr. Jhandir and Louisa Montague dealing with the burglar who’d broken into the infirmary. He felt as though they’d been taken a lifetime ago, but he still rifled through them, trying to remember exactly what shots she had. As far as he could recall, they were all here.

“And the negatives?” he asked, unwilling to let down his guard.

“Such a suspicious mind you have, doctor!” Mrs. Massey said with a little laugh. “Unfortunately, I know nothing about the negatives, if any exist. The photos you’re holding in your hand are the only ones vouchsafed to me. You’d have to direct any further lines of inquiry to the photographer.” 

She neglected to say anything about the identity of said photographer, and Dr. Jhandir felt a little thrill of satisfaction that he’d managed to find out Miss Hattford’s identity without Mrs. Massey knowing he’d done it.

“All right,” he said, not wanting to thank her for returning something she’d had no right to in the first place. As soon as she left, he’d burn them. He was ready to usher her back out the door when a thought occurred to him: “You haven’t told me what  _ your  _ position in the new government is to be.”

“Be sure to let someone in Roger’s office know whether you intend to accept the ministership,” she said, still smiling her cryptic smile. “It will be a temporary position for now, but so far nobody has stepped up to run against Roger next month, so I don’t foresee any upheaval. As for me, well, we haven’t hammered out my precise duties yet. But you’ll be seeing me around. Whether or not you’re our new Minister of Public Health, I’m certain you’ll be a man to watch so long as you remain in London.” She paused for a moment, then added, “Monsoon season is almost over, isn’t it?”

It took Dr. Jhandir a beat to realize what she was driving at, especially after the small terror of her threats of continued surveillance. He said, “Indeed, any week now. I miss the climate, but I’m afraid I’ll be too busy here to go enjoy the autumn weather.”

“In that case, I won’t take up any more of your time. Though I must say, for someone who hasn’t had much time to decorate, you picked out some lovely wallpaper. Good afternoon, doctor.”

* * *

 

Celine called on Dr. Jhandir the day after Mrs. Massey’s unexpected visit, but she’d had the decency to send a card around to say when she’d be coming. She too had brought him a package, it seemed, as she was carrying something wrapped, flat, and rectangular under her arm when she arrived. A canvas, probably.

After they exchanged greetings, Celine eagerly handed him the package before she even took her hat off. She said, “I heard that you were in need of decor, and, well, I just wanted to do my part.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you,” the doctor replied automatically. “Would you like me to open it?”

“Oh, please do!”

Nothing Celine had said so far altered Dr. Jhandir’s suspicion of what the package might be, so he unwrapped it carefully, not wanting to damage the paint underneath. His caution was well-founded—it  _ was  _ a painting, one he recognized the circumstances behind immediately.

The painting showed a man lying glassy-eyed on a table, his skin cut nearly to ribbons. Celine had, wisely, altered his facial features and hair color, but Dr. Jhandir remembered the pattern of cuts, and was surprised that Celine recalled it so precisely too. The painting also showed how its subject ended up this way: There was a hand, reaching from one of the painting’s edges to cut into the subject’s chest with a scalpel. Celine had painted said hand smallish, long-fingered, and olive-skinned.

“Is this supposed to be me?” he asked, careful not to touch the paint as he pointed at the hand. He’d occasionally seen hands painted into Celine’s art, but, up until now, they’d always been English-looking hands. Celine’s grin widened.

“Of course! I brought it over to save your walls from being barren, but I started on it well before the infirmary…” she trailed off, presumably understanding that that was a sensitive subject for him, but regained her momentum almost immediately: “Anyway, I painted it to thank you.”

Dr. Jhandir’s initial response was to be flattered, but that was quickly overwhelmed by worry. Even with the changed features (even though they’d chopped the body into unrecognizable chunks and thrown them from the Edge at three different locations) the painting could be incriminating. Keeping it would be stupid. Dangerous.

But Celine looked so proud. He would need to have a talk with her about discretion, certainly, but perhaps now wasn’t the time. He fought down his panic and forced a smile.

“It’s wonderful,” he said. “Come along; I may as well give you a tour of the place while I decide where to hang it.”

If she noticed his nervousness, she didn’t mention it. She hung up her hat and gloves and followed him through the mostly-empty house, listening as he explained his intentions for each room and occasionally offering a suggestion herself.

“This is my room,” he said at the end of the tour. It was the most furnished room in the house, with a bed  _ and _ a wardrobe  _ and  _ a rug on the floor.

“You bought a bed already!” Celine laughed.

“Is that a surprise?” he asked, baffled.

“I mean no offense, but it’s just… you strike me as a man who’d furnish his parlor before his bedroom.”

Dr. Jhandir was still unsure what that meant, so he tried playing it off as no big deal. “Well, perhaps if I hadn’t spent so long sleeping on a ghastly cot on Lambda-Nu, and a chair in the infirmary before that.”

Celine looked down. “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you again on Lambda-Nu, after Lady Sterling.”

“It’s probably best that you didn’t,” the doctor replied with a dismissive gesture. “There were plenty of people upset with me for having the temerity to deal calmly and rationally with a threat like Lady Sterling. There was no point in you getting dragged into it as well.”

She nodded but didn’t say anything, so Dr. Jhandir added: “I think I’ll hang your painting in here, at least for now. It doesn’t belong in an empty room.” He leaned the painting carefully against a wall. And of course, if he hung it here, almost no one would ever see it. It would be another little secret between him and Celine.

“I think you’re right,” Celine said, perking up. “Is this the end of the tour, then? You haven’t shown me the basement.”

Dr. Jhandir shook his head. “It’s a mess down there right now; I’m trying to insulate one of the rooms so that noise can’t escape. It’s a process of trial and error, I’m afraid.”

“Could you use any help?”

“I suppose I could, at that. If you’re sure.”

“Of course! I intend to make use of your insulated room too, you know.” And then she winked at him, quite theatrically. He couldn’t help but laugh.

“In that case, I welcome your expertise. With an extra set of hands, I should be able to get it finished much sooner.”

To hell with Daphne Massey. She could threaten him all she liked, but his home was no longer a public space for her to sniff around and fill with spies. He could do what he liked here, with whom he liked. And Celine’s eagerness was terribly endearing. For the first time Dr. Jhandir could remember, his vision of the future had another person in it, someone he didn’t have to hide anything from. He’d never expected to meet a kindred soul like Celine, and he hoped she  _ would _ get to use his noise-proofed room. There was so much more he wanted to show her.

* * *

 

That night, Dr. Jhandir awoke to the sound of someone pounding at his door. He fumbled toward the lightswitch by the door—he didn’t have a bedside table yet, let alone a lamp to put on it—and checked the time on his watch once he could see to do so.

Just after midnight.

It certainly wasn’t unheard-of for a doctor to be roused in the middle of the night, but he didn’t have a practice here, wasn’t set up for any kind of serious surgery. Who even knew where he was living now? Only his former colleagues in the rebellion, really. For one of them, he’d just have to do the best he could with the limited supplies he had, or perhaps see them to an hospital.

Dr. Jhandir threw on a dressing gown over his pajamas, slipped into his house shoes, and went downstairs to answer the door, tying the drawstring of his pajamas and the cord of his robe as he went. He looked to see who was outside and what kind of injury they’d sustained but was greeted only by darkness. The bulb in his front light must have been faulty—incandescents could be such a bother.

He sighed and started to open the door, only to have it thrust open the rest of the way by a tall, fair-haired man that Dr. Jhandir had never seen before.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded, trying to intimidate the intruder by voice alone, since he had no other means of defending himself. His pistol was upstairs in his wardrobe, but it may as well have been in his parents’ house, four thousand miles away, for all the good it was doing him.

“You Dr. Anil Jhandir?” This from a second intruder, younger, shorter, and burlier than the first, and with a rather impressive beard. And also a complete stranger, of course. Who would have reason to break in like this? Or, he mentally amended, who would have reason to break in but not to immediately kill him?

“I demand you leave my home at once!”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” the bearded intruder said with a wry smile. “Now, I believe you have in your possession some research conducted by the former administration?”

Dr. Jhandir was  _ certain  _ that his face gave nothing away, but the bearded intruder’s smile still widened.

“Fetch them, then, and we’ll be on our way.”

Dr. Jhandir had a sudden hope that he might be able to escape through the kitchen, or even out a window, while pretending to search for Kern’s notes, but the blond intruder, the one who hadn’t said anything yet, put a hand on his arm, clearly intending to accompany him on his search. The doctor wrenched his arm away but led the blond man upstairs. He was determined to keep a cool head—panic might get him killed, but they obviously wanted something from him, and that gave him some leeway. If he was smart and careful and on the lookout for opportunities, he’d be fine. Or, at least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

The notes were in a manila envelope under his bed—he hadn’t yet bought a desk. It took him a couple deep breaths to work up the courage to retrieve it, to put himself in a completely vulnerable position. When he’d done it, he scrambled to his feet as quickly as he could and threw the heavy folder onto his unmade bed. Then he went to his wardrobe, as though he was just trying to dress—though, in truth, he intended to retrieve his pistol. When he put his hands on the wardrobe’s crystal knobs, though, a knife suddenly thudded into the wood just beside his head and hung there, vibrating.

He was so startled that he didn’t even have the mental space to be annoyed at the damage to a piece he’d bought all of four days ago. His hands flew from the knobs and into the air in a gesture of surrender. When he looked back at the intruder, there was nothing to indicate that the man had moved, save that he was cleaning his fingernails with another knife. The intruder pointed the new knife wordlessly at the folder on the bed, and Dr. Jhandir edged over and snatched it up, keeping his other hand raised.

He let himself be led back downstairs, tensed for the feeling of a blade breaking his skin. There was no way the blond man had missed accidentally the last time. When they reached the foyer, Dr. Jhandir thrust the folder out to the bearded intruder. Losing the notes would be a wrench, even though he’d transcribed the majority of them already, but it was vastly better than losing his life.

“Here. You got what you came for; now get out of my house.”

The bearded man smiled again as he opened the envelope and started leafing through its contents. “Oh, doctor, I think you misunderstand…”

Dr. Jhandir didn’t have time to question what that meant before he felt something hard impact the back of his head, and then there was nothing but darkness.

——— 

When Dr. Jhandir came to, he was...well, certainly not in his own home any more. The room was gaslit and plaster-walled, and it smelled of mildew. Probably one of the lower platforms, then, though that didn’t help him much. The doctor was still dressed in his nightclothes and house slippers and was sitting on a wooden chair, facing a corner. As events filtered back into his mind through his splitting headache, he was surprised to find that he wasn’t bound.

He stood hurriedly, overruling the pounding in his head, then whirled around when a voice said, “Welcome back, doctor.” It was the man who’d kidnapped him, the bearded one. His knife-throwing friend was nowhere to be seen.

What the room  _ did _ contain, though, was an operating table, on which lay a pale young woman, her face wrapped in bandages but otherwise nude. She was dead, and had been, in Dr. Jhandir’s estimation, for perhaps a week or two, though she’d clearly been well-preserved. Next to the table was a tray of surgical instruments, as well as another, larger tray full of various mechanical components.

“What do you expect me to do?”

Before the bearded man could answer, the room’s door opened and the knife-thrower returned, holding a small tray in one hand and wheeling a large glass pump-tank of yellow fluid with the other. He handed the tray to Dr. Jhandir; it held a small glass of water and a single white pill.

“I’m not taking that,” the doctor asserted. They could force him, but if it came to that, it was just a matter of choosing his death, and he knew quite well that poison was a terrible way to go.

His bearded kidnapper laughed. “It’s salacin, doctor. For your head. We’re hardly going to poison you when we need you at your best to help our friend here. But if you’d prefer to work with an aching head...”

“I would, if it’s all the same,” Dr. Jhandir said, setting the little tray on the operating table. No matter what they said, he didn’t trust anything they gave him. Any level of headache was better.

“Suit your own self,” the bearded kidnapper replied with a shrug. His companion, the knife-thrower, wheeled the pump-tank next to the operating table, then took up a position near the door. “It seems like everyone in the city who knew the secret of reanimation has met an unfortunate fate, except for you, doctor.”

Dr. Jhandir was about to protest that he didn’t know, but his kidnapper continued: “Oh, I’m aware you’ve never actually performed a reanimation, but in, hmm, the right circles, you’re known as  _ the _ man for attaching high-end mechanical prosthetics. You put the Steers boy’s legs on, didn’t you? And you’ve got the late Dr. Kern’s writings on his reanimation process. Therefore, you’re going to bring back our friend here. And then we’ll let you go.”

“And if I can’t do it?” Dr. Jhandir had a pretty good idea of what would happen, but he couldn’t stop himself from asking. 

“Have faith in yourself, doctor! If we didn’t have faith in you, you wouldn’t be here. But, hmm, if you let us down, then there’ll be...consequences. I’d just focus on success, if I was you.”

Dr. Jhandir glanced toward the door. His other kidnapper had pulled out a knife again and was tossing it idly into the air. The doctor sighed and opened the manila envelope, which had been thoughtfully laid out for him. He read a little, to make sure he knew what to do, then picked up a scalpel and got to work.


	4. Liz Maximoff / @multifandomgal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @multifandomgal.

“It’s about time elections were arranged… That rebellion really did come through, didn’t it?” Lucas Maximoff said, mostly to himself, as he sat at the table reading the morning’s newspaper.

“Yes, I suppose it did.” Elizabeth replied, appearing at the bottom of the small, rickety staircase. Her father looked up at her in surprise for a second; usually Liz was already up and off working somewhere at this time in the morning, so it was rare to see her at breakfast. The surprise, however, was a welcome one, and both of them were smiling as Liz sat down and looked over at the news headline: Ridley People’s Favourite to Win Upcoming Election. She couldn’t help but feel proud of her fellow rebels for all that they had achieved, though what with everything happening so quickly, it had been quite difficult to find time to reflect on everything until now. Speaking of which, now was probably the best time to get a few things off her chest…

After her father had finished talking about how pleased he was about the current changes to the city, Liz cleared her throat and began “So, about the rebellion… there was something I was meaning to tell you—”

“You were somehow involved in it, I’m guessing?” he interjected, with a completely straight face. Liz blinked at him, surprised, before managing to utter “But how did you…?”

“I have known you all your life, Liz, remember. If anyone was going to join a rebellion and try to save the city, it’s you. Then of course there were those mysterious letters that kept arriving in the post for you all of a sudden, and the weapons blueprints you left on your desk, and—”

“Okay, okay. I get the picture.” Liz cut her father off, feeling a little sheepish, “So, you’re not upset or anything?”

Her father smiled and shook his head. “I could never be upset with you, dear. In fact, I’m proud of you for standing up for what you believe in. Just don’t go telling me about all the dangerous and possibly illegal things you’ve been doing, okay?”

The two of them laughed, then Liz started telling her father all about her involvement in the rebellion. It was great to finally be able to tell him everything, and not having to keep the secrets was a big relief for her. She did start crying a little bit whilst trying to recount what happened with Doland, but was met with reassuring and comforting words from her father, so brightened up enough to triumphantly tell him about her and Kara’s capture of Chairman Hazard. They could have probably discussed the rebellion all morning, were it not for an impatient customer knocking on the shop door, demanding that they open up already. Oh well, there would hopefully be plenty of time to talk now that everything was finally over, and, come to think of it, plenty of time to do lots of things, like respond to that letter from that infuriating Edward Taylor, for starters…


	5. Dr. Irving Suttler / @closetcellist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @closetcellist, AKA [closetcellist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/closetcellist).

It still gave him a shivery thrill when he remembered their reunion—the absolute relief at seeing Chauncey again, alive and nearly unharmed, the hot delight when Chauncey immediately reached for him, the small surprised gasps from everyone but Chauncey as Irving threw everything to the winds and kissed him, and the look on Dr Jhandir’s face once he realized he’d lost his power of blackmail one and for all. Day to day though, he felt mostly incredibly content, and, if he was forced to admit it, much more relaxed now that the rebellion was done.

He was going to set up a small practice, he’d decided, though he hadn’t quite gotten around to doing it yet. Just here, in his apartments, now that he was in someplace a bit larger. A pay-what-you-can, open for all situation, like he’d done before, in that short time between university and trying to be a different kind of hero. He’d admit it was an incredibly learning experience, really thrown into the crucible, and he thought he’d be a lot more useful now, even if bullet wounds still made him a little bit queasy.

“The water’s boiling,” an amused voice said, right by his ear, as Chauncey stepped up behind him, wrapping his arms easily around his waist and resting his chin on Irving’s shoulder. “You’re daydreaming again.”

“Ah, right,” Irving said, his face still, after weeks of living together, flushing when Chauncey paid him the slightest attention. Eventually he was going to have to learn to do something about that. He took the kettle off the stove, but didn’t move it far, not wanting to pull out of the embrace.

“The tea can wait,” Chauncey confirmed, and Irving knew he was smiling. “What was it about this time? You looked pleased.”

“I was thinking about my practice,” Irving said, resting one hand over Chauncey’s.

“Already redecorating our space,” Chauncey said with a chuckle. “I’ll help if you want, but you’ll have to direct.”

“That’s all right,” Irving said. “I  _ can _ actually do the heavy lifting.”

“That will certainly be something to see,” Chauncey teased, and Irving felt a different sort of thrill as Chauncey’s stubble rasped lightly across his clean-shaven cheek.

His future—as the neighborhood physician and an official confirmed bachelor—looked incredibly bright.


	6. Andrew O'Rourke / @delusionsbybonnie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user @delusionsbybonnie, AKA [DelusionsbyBonnie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/delusionsbybonnie).

Andrew unlocked the door of his tenement flat and collapsed onto his bed with a sigh.  Everything was… neater than he'd left it; Liam's books and papers were gone, and the body of Lynch had vanished too. Liam must have disposed of it before he left as a last gesture of goodwill.  Andrew was grateful for that at least. For as long as he'd been gone, someone would have noticed the smell. 

He sat up and reached beneath the mattress.  The bag of money was still there at least. He counted it out, a plan forming in his mind.  He'd had a lot of time to think in the past few weeks. After the adventure with Dr Suttler-- his second murder, a nasty voice reminded him-- the knife wounds from Lynch had become infected. He had been feverish for a while, but with the doctor's patient attention he had recovered, the second time he owed the man his life.  They had talked quite a lot as Andrew convalesced, and the doctor had pressed upon him a parting gift once he was strong enough to leave. The small packet rested in his pocket now. 

Money counted, he separated out a good amount and tucked it into his pocket.  Working for Percy Albright had gotten him bloodied and bruised, but it could also get him this.  He had a pawn shop to visit.    
  


* * *

The docks were bustling when he arrived.  A little thing like the overthrow of a regime wouldn't stop the grinding wheels of commerce after all.  He didn't bother to pull his cap low any more; what did it matter now if he was recognized? He was, according to Dr. Suttler, a hero of the revolution, whatever the hell that meant besides “sanctioned murderer”.  

He was startled by a hand on his shoulder, and nearly punched the man's grinning face.  “Christ, Davis, you scared me.”

“No need to be so jumpy!  We won.” Davis shook his hand heartily.  “Glad to see you still alive.”

“Aye, that was a near-run thing.  I'm still not up to fighting fit as it is. D’you know which berth-"

Davis pointed.  “Pier 36. Should have known you weren't here for me.”  He grinned, clapping Andrew's shoulder once more. “Good luck.  We'll catch up later.”

Andrew nodded and smiled, shoving his hands back into his pockets.  One small package, one tiny box. One hell of a decision. He'd see if he had the courage to go through with it, after everything else. 


	7. Cordelia French / @decoder13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written by Polyvore user (and LITA creator) @decoder13, aka [Decoder13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decoder13). It was partially co-written by Polyvore users @closetcellist, AKA [closetcellist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/closetcellist) and @delusionsbybonnie, AKA .

The first day or so after Charlotte’s death was a trial all its own for Cordelia.  Not because of conscience, exactly. She hadn’t the luxury of time to dwell too much on that.  Perhaps this was for the best.  
  
She’d noticed Charlotte fidgeting with something the whole time she’d spoken.  The whole damn time, until the gun came out. Maybe a pen? Cordelia didn’t know much about her now, but she had, once.  And she knew there was something to that. The desk’s top surface had been empty of papers or pens when she’d checked it after the fight.  But a single drawer had been left propped open.  
  
Sure enough, there’d been a letter inside.  A long letter. A letter that certainly hadn’t been written in a few last desperate moments.  
  
Maybe Cordelia would tell someone about it, and all the rest, someday.  But for those first few weeks after, she left that first day after a perfect blank.  


* * *

  
In the next days came the news of victory.  And then came all the legwork - the many hours spent prowling the city and seeking out whoever was still alive (or at least some fairly reliable word of who was and who was not).  Cordelia told the good men and women she worked with in this that she was doing it for the sake of the whole rebellion. And, to be fair, that was part of it. She did find ways to send back any word she found to other rebels who could continue to spread the word.    
  
Cordelia knew most of the right places to look.  She checked bases, safehouses, any place people were likely to have gathered.  The people she found often had another place or two she hadn’t known or thought of before to point her towards.  Sometimes she traced one person’s track through 4 or 5 distinct locations before she found them. Sometimes, at the end, she only found the body.  But however heartening or tragic the outcome was, it was very clearly a game of connecting the dots. She simply had to follow the rumors from stronghold to stronghold and note who she did and did not find alive along the way.  
  
She was not sure it would eventually lead to the person she was still looking for.  The problem was that she was not sure anything else would, either. It was long and tedious, but it kept her busy, and it was ultimately good for everyone.  
  
So she was more than a little surprised when she stumbled across the answers she needed most in an almost entirely chance encounter in the street.  
  
Of course Cordelia made sure to walk around in places where she felt there was the highest chance of such a chance encounter.  Only so much new progress could come from asking old contacts. Now that people were finally leaving their homes and bases and hideouts again, in the right neighborhoods, one could indeed stumble across fellow rebels sizing up the aftermath of things.    
  
The storm was over.  People were back out testing the waters again.  And one of those people out strolling the streets of London again just so happened to be one Dr. Irving Suttler of all people.

Recognizing the man, Cordelia waved to him, hoping to catch his attention.  But anyone being alive (even _him_ ) was still exciting at this point.  She’d made her way across the street, skillfully dodging a couple of cars as she went, before he’d had proper time to respond.

“Dr. Suttler,” Cordelia said, her voice a peculiar balance between quite excited and rather cool, “It’s good to see you’re well.”  What she meant was actually “alive,” as he did not look perfectly well, nor (though she hated to admit it) would she have been notably happy to see him perfectly and miraculously happy after everything that had happened over the past week or so.

“Captain French!” Irving responded, a myriad of emotions flickering incredibly obviously across his face, encompassing surprise, relief, guilt, and some complex combination of all three. “I’m so--I haven’t been able to find anyone. It’s been--” He cut himself off, flustered, and ran an absent hand through his already mussed hair. He let out a nervous laugh. “I _am_ glad to see you, I’ve had your boyfriend in my bed for the last few days.” A beat of awful silence passed and all of the blood left his face. “That isn’t what I meant to say.”

 _While it has never been meteorologically confirmed, most eyewitnesses present on the street that day would attest that a sudden icy wind swept across the entire city at that very second.  Thus, in the year of 1894, a new ice age began._  
  
At least, that’s what Cordelia imagined historians dealing with this particular moment would one day write.  Everything she felt came crashing down on her at once. Absolute joy and relief that Andrew was alive were very much complicated by the fact that it the mention of him was squeezed between the phrases “I’ve had” and “in my bed.”  And this said by Irving. Again .  Was this becoming some kind of pathological compulsion with him?  
  
Cordelia’s resulting glare could have very plausibly frozen a raging torrent of molten lava.  Too relieved to sound irate but too irate to sound relieved, all that was left for to season her tone with was a pinch of finely chilled sarcasm.  

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” she replied curtly, “but thank you for having the decency to tell me to my face this time.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Irving said again, holding up his hands as though that could at all ward off Cordelia’s (undeserved, this time) fury. “That is, he is at my apartment, and he has been in my bed, but only because he’s been recovering. He was stabbed. Not by me.” He tried to think of any way to salvage this conversation and only managed, “I’m sure that he would be very happy to see you.”

Cordelia initially appeared like she was about to respond to one or more of those statements very quickly indeed, before pursing her lips tightly and looking away for a moment.  
  
When she looked back to Suttler, her expression newly relaxed.  The air temperature seemed to warm at least a few degrees. “And heaven knows I’ll be happy to see him,” she admitted, cracking a faint grin.  Suddenly she was chuckling faintly, even though nothing here seemed very funny. It felt like an anvil had been hoisted off of her chest.  
  
Her chuckling stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and suddenly she found herself reaching out to grasp Irving’s shoulder as if he - Irving Suttler, of all people - was an old friend.  Out of everyone, it was him who’d just given her the news she most wished for in the world right now. And she knew that Irving was not a liar, and not an intentionally cruel man.  
  
Cordelia shook her head and, with less difficulty than she’d expected, continued, “I’m sorry, Irving.  I suppose old habits die hard.” She paused, a glint of mischief appearing in her eye. “Besides, how can I be in bad spirits after Chauncey Spencer and I just spent the most wonderful night together?”  
  
“Chauncey...is alive?” Irving asked, his eyes widening and then his brow furrowing immediately, his words escaping before he could really marshal them. “Alive, with you? In the night? Together?” It had really been an overly eventful last few weeks and he knew it would be fair of the universe to do this to him, now, but he still did not want it to be so. But it couldn’t be so--Cordelia was too happy to hear about Andrew, and had just been too angry. “For dinner?” he added, narrowing his eyes as he guessed.

“Alive,” Cordelia replied, expression unreadable.  “With me. In the night. Together. For dinner, and the into the wee hours of the morning.”  

Then the mask broke, so to speak.  Irving’s shock and clear incredulity was immensely comforting.  And suddenly she saw so much of her own mix of emotions to feel like turning this into some kind of bitter game of trying to construct increasingly painful and suspicious innuendos.  It was almost surreal, how much had happened, how much everyone still didn’t know. And it was so, so painfully clear. Thaddeus was dead. She cared deeply for Andrew. Irving cared deeply for Chauncey.  Damn, what did a decade ago even matter anymore? _What did it even matter?_

Cordelia sighed, offered a tired smile, and added, “Along with half dozen other people, compiling a full list of who we knew the condition of and who we didn’t, who was located where, who was in need of care and supplies, and who we’re still looking for.  It was a very productive night. You’d be happy to know that he wouldn’t let your name come into the conversation any less than five times an hour. He’ll be beyond happy that someone finally came across you, and all in one piece, too.” She raised an eyebrow, almost playfully.  “Whatever else could you have _possibly_ thought I meant?”

“He asked about me?” Irving asked, and his hopeful, faintly puppy-ish expression was practically painful. “Oh, well..” he trailed off for a moment, picking up a different thread from the same tattered tapestry. “Cordelia...I know that it’s too late and too little. But...I am sorry, about what happened. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I owe you this at the very least.  I know that what I did was wrong. I knew it was wrong then too I just…” he let out a sad laugh. “I thought, well, you were a talented, beautiful girl. Surely you’d have your pick of men in the world. And I was...lonely. That’s not an excuse, just...an explanation. I don’t know if--if I should say this but I feel you should know, he really did love you. The whole time.” He chewed his lip before adding. “Obviously you’ve ended up with a better man. But that doesn’t excuse what I did.”

After a slightly too-long moment of silence, Cordelia nodded slowly and said, “You know, I do love overturning expectations.”  She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and looked off to the side, thinking. “You’re a good man, Irving Suttler.  A good man who admittedly made a _very big mistake_ ,” she said with emphasis.  She wasn’t about to let him get off **too** easily.  “But then again,” she continued, “you’re talking to a woman who left someone who really did love her at the altar without a word of explanation or regret because it was so much easier to just run.”  

She let out another wistful chuckle.  “I’m sorry I’ve walked around for a decade with such a grudge against you for the choices Thaddeus made himself.  I didn’t even know you. You weren’t the one I trusted, and you weren’t the one who broke that trust. Perhaps even after all that time I still felt I had some obligation to hold you accountable for Thaddeus’ mistake because he wasn’t there to be held to account.  And I’m sorry I helped Anil hijack the infirmary, and will probably grow to be increasingly so in the future.” She locked eyes with Suttler again. “I forgive you, Irving. I hope you can forgive me, too.”

“You helped...Dr Jhandir…” Irving trailed off, his brow furrowing. “Are you the one who told him about me? I suppose it’s a fitting punishment, but I really didn’t think you were one to support blackmail.”

“Told him what about you?” Cordelia asked.  “Blackmail? No, I rerouted medical patients and supplies away from you, to Dr. Jhandir.  Without any official order or sanction, and without any blackmail. It was petty, and the unplanned shift in where supplies were could have seriously endangered people.  Hence I am apologizing.”

She raised one brow again, this time not so blatantly.  “Has Dr. Jhandir been blackmailing you?” She paused. “Not that I’d be especially surprised at this point, but really.  Has he?”

“Oh that--that’s all right,” Irving said, though it did still carry its own sting. “I suppose it doesn’t matter much anymore now anyways. But yes, somehow he found out about me and--about me in university and he threatened to tell, well, everyone. It would have ruined me. Though that too...maybe that doesn’t matter much anymore either.”

“Well, it’s not ‘all right,’ but I happily accept your forgiveness, if that’s what you mean,” Cordelia clarified.  Petty meanness wasn’t all right just because it wasn’t monumentally cruel, though she sensed the man’s word choice was more out of relief than anything.  “I can’t say I _know_ how Dr. Jhandir got his hands upon such information, but I have suspicions, and if they’re correct, I don’t think you have to worry about his source.  As for the man himself…” Cordelia shrugged. She felt a sudden surge of generosity towards Suttler, a certain sense of connection if not quite of camaraderie.  And also she was still more than a little sour towards Anil herself. “If he ever does happen to give you trouble about the matter again, let me know. I have a variety of methods for talking better sense into people.”

“You would do that for me?” Irving asked, surprised, though a small, hopeful smile peeking through, before he gave himself a little shake. “Oh, what am I doing, talking about this all in the street. Come, come to my apartment, see your Andrew. I’ll let you in and you two can have some privacy to catch up.” He gestured and started to walk with her toward his home. “You know, Andrew and I have had some time to talk while he’s been recovering. He seems like a wonderfully kind man--which honestly only makes his friendship with Dr Jhandir all the more confusing to me--but I’m getting away from myself. He mentioned he has trouble with air travel, getting airsick, so I’ve been working on an herbal remedy for him--I think a ginger tea will work, and then he’d be able to travel with you a lot more easily, I think…”

“I would do that for you,” Cordelia replied, returning Irving’s smile.  “And I would very much like to see Andrew, yes.” She turned in the direction of Suttler’s gesture and began to walk alongside him.  “He is a wonderfully kind man. Principled. Sincere. He and Anil are a riddle for the ages, and if you ever do figure out how the hell they happened, I would be most obliged if you would share your miraculous breakthrough in the social sciences with me first,” she joked.  It was amazing how easily they had slid into this. She wondered if they could have done this sooner. If they should have. But, whatever the case, there was no time like the present.

“Ginger tea, you say?  Interesting. I think I remember my aunt saying that ginger could help with a headache, though that’s not really the same thing.  Still. If you think that would help, and Andrew’s willing to try it…”

And, with that, the two were off.

* * *

 

In the coming days, Cordelia was only a little short of amazed by how quickly some things went back to normal, or, at least, to London’s particular standard of normal.  Theoretically, she’d known that the national and global economy would not collapse because of a little chaos all the way up here. She’d also known that there was some business still going on at the sky docks even at the peak of the public violence associated with the revolution.  Just because _she_ hadn’t been out at the docks hadn’t meant that no one else had.  Just because _she_ hadn’t been up in the air hadn’t meant that every single airship in the Empire had been grounded.

Still, it had been a bit of a shock - one of the few pleasant shocks she’d had any time recently - when she’d returned to the docks to find the _Belladonna_ basically intact and a good portion of her usual crew there to meet her with multiple bottles of very good wine from a source or sources unknown.  The vast majority of her crew had gotten themselves every bit as entangled in the rebellion as she had. They shared that, and maybe it was better than ever that they did.  For her first whole hour back, they also shared stories and their excellent libations as the lot of them waited on the docks for the sunrise.

Cordelia did not share any stories about Charlotte.  She wasn’t sure that she ever would.

There were also people missing, of course.  Some she knew the fates of, for better or for worse.  But she kept perfectly quiet for her first full minute back on the deck of her ship: a moment of silence for the rest.

After that first morning, though, things began to slip back into perfect routine in spite of themselves.  Cordelia was still Captain French. She still harbored a certain secret fear that something - most anything, but particularly her pigheaded decision to escort Paxton and Flora to their aunt personally, what the _hell_ had she been thinking? - she’d done during the past few months might shatter that.  That someone outside of the trusted few had pieced the whole puzzle together.

Yet day after day passed, and it was back to business as usual, though minus most of the smuggling parts.  There wasn’t really a reason for it anymore. Something about a possible government position involving air travel or trade or both had been floated once or twice.  Cordelia had hardly acknowledged it, at least not as any immediate thing. A vague suggestion from a well-meaning youngster that she could settle down and help change the world from the ground now was met with a forced smile, subtly clenched fists, and a polite assertion to the contrary.

Her ship and the sky, and the long days of good work and open air, and of course the good company were enough.  Though she did not see nearly as much of Andrew as she’d have liked. He was still in a bad state, still recovering, but at least she’d heard enough and caught enough glimpses to know that he was alright.  He would be alright. And, surprisingly enough, across all those precious few visits, Dr. Suttler proved to be a better conversationalist and friend than she’d ever expected. Chauncey was pleased as punch to see how they got along now.

Things remained quiet enough with Celine - quieter than she’d ever have liked - but not… hostile.  Celine was still her little sister. Cordelia knew (or at least hoped) that what she needed the most now was time to think some things over for herself.  Dr. Jhandir was not someone she wanted to think about overly much at the moment, though she knew the time would come when she’d have to. At least he was someone she knew how to reconcile with, more or less.  She’d had plenty of practice in the past and seemed likely to get plenty more in the future. Cordelia did not dare to suppose for a moment that Celine’s insistence on staying in London rather than returning to Manhattan with Blarion was solely or even primarily because of her.

All in all, the cards of life had been shuffled in some strange ways, but she could be content with this.  She could not keep still or keep quiet. Never could, never would. But she could be content. And the chances of her contentment would increase quite phenomenally not a very long time later...

* * *

It wasn’t really all that many days before Cordelia was on the deck of the  _ Belladonna _ arguing very vehemently with Jennings about why, exactly, the ship had to be properly registered and documented under its actual name just because London was no longer controlled by a tyrannical shadow government.  Despite the vehement opinions of some of her crew, Cordelia was still not particularly keen on continuing to be more or less a pirate. She could accept the word fully now that she was shrugging it off. She had killed for and very nearly died with the people who had created the version of London that was just starting to rise from the ashes.  There’d be no meaning or sense or honor in smuggling or scheming or raiding against them just to prove how very wild and daring she was.

Cordelia was a woman of honor who had not slept for more than two hours at a time in three weeks.  She was tired. Not anywhere near ready to be  **_re_ ** tired yet, but tired.

Suddenly, Jennings paused mid-sentence, eyes fixed on something in the distance just over Cordelia’s right shoulder.  

“Well, Jennings?” Cordelia prompted, wondering if perhaps she’d finally chased him into a logical corner so tight and sharp that there was no escape.  That, or if he’d just snapped out of it for a moment. That wasn’t quite unheard of. “Your point isn’t making itself.”

“Captain,” Jennings said, eyes still fixed back on the dock, “I think I can make it later.”

That had to be a cue of some sort.  Cordelia glanced back over her shoulder towards the docks and, after gazing over the area for a moment, saw what Jennings had.  Or, rather, saw  _ who  _ Jennings had.

She nodded slowly.  “Yes, Jennings, you do that.”

That was Jennings’ cue.  She didn’t watch him walk away, but she heard him.  She also heard a sort of low generalized squealing noise from her crew as a collective entity that she sagely chose to ignore.  Instead, she strode briskly over to the railing of the deck for a better look of the man approaching he ship from below.

After this -  _ even after all of this _ \- she met eyes with Andrew O’Rourke, out and about and down on the docks again, and suddenly felt like she could really, truly breathe again.  It felt like a stale old breathe she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding onto for weeks had finally completely released itself.

It was too far for Cordelia to do much but shout at him, and she suspected everything either of them might have to say wouldn’t be particularly shoutable (or at least oughtn’t just be shouted carelessly and left to float sluggishly in the air like an incapacitated ship not quite damaged enough to crash).  So she leaned over the railing and motioned for him to board the ship and join her up on the deck. Though ultimately the gesture just looked like very intense waving accompanied by a slightly exhausted but very bright smile. 

This was Andrew.   _ Andrew _ .  He would understand.

Andrew's face lit up as he spotted Cordelia, beaming and waving at him from that beautiful ship of hers.  He returned the wave, though less wildly enthusiastic; raising his arm too far still pulled painfully at the wound in his side.  She was safe, and she was happy to see him. He walked as quickly as he could, still feeling a catch in his side and the fatigue of three weeks flat on his back, but it was worth it to see Cordelia sooner.  She was safe, and she was right up there. His shoulders felt lighter somehow. 

He mounted the gangplank wearily, meeting her eyes with a smile.  “Could've sworn that thing was shorter and not as steep last time I was here.  Jesus and Mary, but it's good to see you, Cordelia.” 

The brightness of Cordelia’s smile faltered a moment as she saw clearly that Andrew was in some kind of discomfort just getting up the gangplank.  Heading down toward him, she instinctively reached out a hand towards his own. “Probably it was. Damn thing has a mind of its own,” she quipped, her grin returning.  “If it tries pulling that again, I’ll have to assign it double duty scrubbing the lower deck.”

She hoped she didn’t sound as tired as she felt.  It was clear that Andrew needed nothing else to worry about just now.

“It’s good to see you, too, Andrew,” Cordelia added quietly.  She paused for a moment to glare at Jennings and a couple of other curious souls who were none too subtly watching this touching scene with rapt attention.  That was all they needed. In a moment, they’d scuttled off in various directions like a cluster of frightened crabs.

“You know, the first time I’ve prayed in a long time was over the past few weeks, for you.  I suppose I’ll need to try it more often if it always works this well,” Cordelia continued softly, motioning to a long sturdy storage crate resting on the deck.  She’d been using it as a nice makeshift bench for a few days. And she certainly wasn’t going to keep Andrew standing there, nor force him to ask to sit. “I was just planning to rest here for a moment or two in between things.  Care to join me?”

Still holding her hand, Andrew chuckled and dropped onto the crate.  “Nothing I'd rather do. Christ, I'm glad you're safe.” He leaned back against the rail, gently tugging her down next to him.  Even that small contact felt like an anchor. He would have liked to wrap his arms around her and rest for a while, but he couldn't take that luxury yet.  Confession first, at least, if not absolution. Then, if she still wanted him… 

He took a deep breath, then winced.   “I hope your time was a little safer than mine.  I… have a lot to tell you.” A shadow passed over his face.  “Bad news goes down easier with good company, at least. You first, or me?”

Andrew leaning back gave Cordelia the sense that she could do the same.  Under other circumstances, she could have easily drifted off to sleep like that, with her back against the railing and the wind and the warm pressure of Andrew’s hand in hers.  A sense of wholeness if not quite yet of peace. She was surprised by how tired she really felt now, but it was a kind of tiredness that kept her awake. One thing after another for all those days had taken a toll.  She wasn’t about to hoist all of that weight onto Andrew, too. It was clear in his face, in his voice, that he carried more than enough of his own.

Him first, or her?  She’d spoken to Suttler - she knew something of what Andrew might say.  Had Andrew even heard about Charlotte? About all of that? He certainly hadn’t heard about what came after that, of the letter or the children or the lingering sense that she’d betrayed something (though heaven only knew precisely what).

Then again, the look on his face seemed none too proud and none too eager.  Perhaps he’d rather first hear that he wasn’t the only one with bad news.

“We could toss a coin,” she suggested.  “I have a feeling we both have more than enough bad news to comfortably fill an afternoon.”  Though maybe it would help if he didn’t feel he was laying his sins bare before a saint, and she didn’t feel like she was pretending to be a saint.  “But, if it’s all right, I also have a feeling that maybe I should go first.”

Andrew looked relieved at the suggestion.  “Yeah, all right.” He squeezed her hand gently and shoved the other hand into his pocket, fidgeting with the tiny box.  She looked as tired as he felt, and he felt another twinge of guilt. But she had offered, and she was a fine strong woman.  He trusted her. 

Cordelia nodded slowly.  “All right,” she echoed. She took a deep breath in, let half of it out, then forced herself to stop leaning against the railing and sit up straight, with perfect posture.  This was something, like it or not, that she had to take ownership of. Where to even start, though? “Well, when all hell broke loose, Helena had me doing runs within the city.  Small craft, small crews, low to the ground. First it was just provisions, weapons, and any particular papers or whispers someone at Point A happened to have for someone at Point B.  Then it was people, mostly people too young or too injured to fight. Then it was the wounded.” She paused for a moment, biting the inside of her bottom lip. “Then we were shot down.  That’s why I hate small craft; they’re just mediocre cars that can fly, and they’re too easy to disable if you have a little gumption and a few rounds to spare. We… lost people.  _ I  _ lost people.”

Her grip on Andrew’s hand tightened just a bit.  She wasn’t quite sure which of them she was doing that for.  “About a week later, I more or less” - she breathed in sharply - “helped murder my boarding school roommate in her own house while her two young children cowered in the attic, so that was not my finest hour.”  Cordelia’s expression and voice were both finely measured and decidedly cool, but after speaking she turned her face away from Andrew’s and waited. It had taken saying it so bluntly to drive home for her what she had done.  There was worse, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to say it. Whatever her golden intentions, what she had ultimately aided in had been personal and honorless and cruel in ways she had told no one else. 

And suddenly she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to go on - not because she couldn’t, but because Andrew was looking at her with so much care and respect and his hand in hers was so warm and kind, despite the fact she’d just helped orphan a boy who had almost been her godson.

Andrew breathed a curse, unable to respond with anything more coherent.  “Oh, Cordelia,” he managed eventually, enveloping her hand in both of his.  “I didn't realize--I mean, I should've realized you knew these people, but…”  He trailed off, not sure where his stumbling words were going. 

“It's always a question of the best outcome for the most people, innit?”  It was a one-sided conversation Liam had had many times. His brother, once determined to be a priest, had wound up a hunted man guilty of things that would have made his younger self pale.  Liam hadn't felt the need to talk his way out of a guilty conscience in a while now. 

“They did a lot of wicked things, and now they can't hurt anyone.  It's a damned shame that stopping them hurt people too, but…” Andrew shrugged.  “Sometimes the right thing hurts. A thing isn't worth anything except what someone gives up for it.”  That was another line from Liam. Andrew felt that he finally understood what it meant. 

Cordelia was quiet for a moment.  Not a frightened or a hurt sort of quiet.  If anything, there was a certain sense of peace to be found in Andrew’s acceptance.  Here she’d been terrified that her actions would crack or shatter his trust in her. Instead, he stayed there, hand still intertwined with hers, offering nothing but understanding.  Nothing but even more trust. He had faith that despite everything she’d done, she’d done the best she could for as many people as she could. That was a faith she didn’t entirely have in herself.

“The best outcome for the most people,” she repeated quietly.  “If a thing is worth the sum of what was sacrificed for it, then the London we’re trying to build now had better be the most precious thing in the world.  I’m calling our own bullshit if it’s anything less.”

“She was writing a note,” Cordelia continued cautiously, reassured by Andrew simply still being there as much as by anything he said.  “My boarding school roommate, Charlotte, she was writing a note when we found her. And she started into a very long, very cryptic speech as soon as she saw us.  It was every bit as evil as we could have hoped for. If we needed something to soothe our consciences preemptively, that was the perfect balm. But the whole while she kept writing even though she hid the paper and tried to hide most of her movements behind some trinkets on her desk.  As soon as she was done writing, she slipped the note into a desk drawer, whipped out a gun, started a fight.”

Cordelia took a deep breath.  She hadn’t told anyone else this next part, note even her younger siblings.  “After she died, I thought I’d check her desk. I’d seen her fidgeting with it while she spoke and thought she might have stashed something there worth finding.”  She closed her eyes. “I found the note in a drawer that was still cracked open. And it was more of a letter. Half of the letter was a suicide note, and the other half was a set of detailed instructions about how her children were to be provided for.  Then there was a note to each of them for when they grew up. The whole thing likely took days to write. I don’t pretend to know what was going on in her mind, but whatever else she was, she was brilliant and sad and sick and ripping herself to pieces.”

“The instructions about her children were meant for… someone else, I think,” Cordelia stated.  Now was probably not the time to go into her theory about Charlotte’s plans for Oscar. “But I was the one who got them.  So I found those children, made sure they got to the aunt Charlotte entrusted their care to, and placed the whole letter into her hands myself.  I don’t know if said aunt recognized me or not. I think she did. I recognized her. And I know what I did was incredibly stupid. I keep waiting for things to start breaking, for someone to call out to me by a name I don't want to hear to answer for something I never wanted to consider again.  I spend a decade becoming who I wanted to be, and that might mean nothing now.”

“But the best outcome for the most people sometimes entails doing something very stupid, doesn’t it?” she concluded.  “I suspect we both know that now better than ever.”

She didn’t know what she expected from Andrew.  Comfort? Advice? A simple willingness to listen and nod and not leave?  Right now just the sense that he was there and that they were hurting and questioning and breathing together was a precious thing.  Worth all the sacrifice.

Andrew listened in silence, squeezing her hand gently when she fell silent.  “‘M good at stupid,” he managed, and the joke didn't fall as flat as he feared it would.  He took a long breath. 

“I killed Lynch.  He came to my place looking for information about his daughter.  Liam was tied up. We fought, he had a knife, and I punched him in the head until he stopped trying to stab me.  Liam… Liam is gone now. I gave him some money and told him to leave, and went to get Doc to patch me up, but the infirmary was on fire.  Soldiers everywhere.” He shook his head. “Looked like a picture of Judgement Day. Lucky for me, I ran into Dr. Suttler and he took me in.  Bandaged me up, stitches, some kinda pain-killing lettuce that made my head all funny. Then we went after Scarborough.”

Andrew tipped his head back against the rail briefly.  “We were mad to try it. I had my knuckledusters and Lynch’s gun, and Dr. Suttler had...a whole lot of will.  We snuck in the back door and...I shot the bastard because Suttler has never fired a gun in his life and forgot to cock the damned thing.  Then we ran like hell. Got away through the tunnels, and I don't know how many stitches I popped. Was off my head with fever for a few days, then Suttler wouldn't let me leave for a couple more weeks.  So that's it, I guess. I killed two men and told my only brother I wanted no part in his fight.”

He waited for her response, praying that she would be able to forgive him this.  If she didn't… well, it wasn't that he had nothing left. But what he would have looked like cold comfort next to the warmth of her hand in his.  He thought again of the box in his pocket. 

Cordelia had gradually tightened her grasp on Andrew’s hand as he spoke.  By the time he’d finished, even before she’d said a single word in response, the strength of her grip spoke volumes.

“Dear Lord, Andrew, I am so sorry,” was the first thing that tumbled out of her mouth.  It was entirely unpremeditated and, as she saw it, entirely unhelpful. And it wasn’t like she’d orchestrated a single moment of it.  But Andrew had been tumbling through assorted varieties of hell for weeks, and he certainly deserved an apology from someone. Besides, there was a genuine sense of regret in the pit of her stomach.  Regret for not knowing for so long. Regret for not being there.

“You were right.  Sometimes the right thing hurts,” she continued quietly.  “And it hurts so much because you are a good man. Because you would and did risk everything to keep as many people as possible from being hurt, and then still feel bad because you couldn’t save everyone in the world.”  She paused. When she continued, she was thinking as much about her sister as she was about Andrew’s brother. “As for Liam, sometimes we need to step away from people, even people we deeply, desperately care about, for a while.  Step out and clear our heads before we break something good forever. From everything you’ve said, Liam loves his country, but he also loves his brother. And it’s clear as day that you love him right back. Give it a little time.  Just because you’re not in all of each other’s fights doesn’t mean you’re not in each other’s hearts.”

Cordelia wondered how long it would take her to apply that same kind of thinking to Celine.  At least they were still speaking, but it felt like most of what they said was just a metaphor for a metaphor for what they actually wanted to say.

Cordelia forced a tired chuckle.  “Well, if nothing else, we  _ are _ both very good at stupid, aren’t we?”  She grinned wearily. “I could not ask for a better, truer, braver partner in the pursuit of noble idiocy.”

Andrew felt the weight of weeks lifted.  “I can't tell you how much that means from you.  It’s been… one hell of a time.”

He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out the small box.  “I… have something for you, if you want it.” He opened it clumsily with one hand, revealing a gold ring set with a small sky blue aquamarine.

Cordelia breathed in sharply, her eyes widening the moment she saw the box, before the ring was even revealed.  Some part of her had been expecting this eventually. Well, actually, it was more like some part of her was hoping that this would happen before she up and asked him.  Question or no, she knew exactly what he meant.

She looked into Andrew’s eyes and smiled, a bright, crisp smile that transcended the physical exhaustion she felt.  “Only if you come along with it,” she replied softly, leaning closer to him.

He smiled warmly, wrapping an arm around her.  “Course I do. And...I can come with you, or at least try.  Dr. Suttler gave me candied ginger. Says it helps with nausea, so I won't spend the whole trip heaving.”

The worries of the last… well, so long as he could remember, melted away.  Finally, something looked like it was going right.

Cordelia brought her free hand up to her mouth, stifling a sudden burst of laughter.  She wasn’t quite sure what she was laughing about: Andrew’s play on words, or his sudden frankness, or how it felt to be held by him and how it felt when she reached out an arm to hold him back.  “Then yes,” she finally managed to say. “Yes, Andrew, yes, yes, hell if you brought the ginger now, you can come with me right now.” She leaned her face towards his, closer, closer...

Suddenly, a cacophony of applause arose from the other side of the deck.  Cordelia quickly turned her head to look at the source, only to see the vast majority of her crew peering from a hatch out at the upper deck.

“Shut it, you idiots,” Jennings scolded more loudly than he’d maybe intended, “they were about to kiss!”

For the first time in a long time, Cordelia felt her face flush a very bright red.

“If you don’t shut that hatch right now,” she growled, glaring at Jennings, “you’re all about to be booted from the ship.”

With a rush of fevered, nervous chuckles, the hatch slammed shut.

Cordelia turned back to Andrew, blush still inflaming her cheeks.  “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into with this?” she asked, half-jokingly, half absolutely sincerely.

As red as his hair, Andrew smiled crookedly as he leaned down toward her.  “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

 


End file.
